The bell rang, and a flood of students poured out of Madison Middle School. Kids laughed and chattered excitedly to each other, racing down the street toward their homes. Hannah Bauer was the only one not engaging in the mad rush for home. Instead, the thirteen-year-old walked slowly, the wind teasing her long, strawberry-blond hair. It had been one of those days where nothing went right. She had arrived at school fifteen minutes late, forgotten her social studies homework, and somebody had stolen her sweatshirt. Rubbing her bare arms, she wondered if anything else could go wrong. Her answer came almost immediately, as a passing pickup sloshed her with mud from the gutter. Hannah slumped down on a nearby park bench in defeat and covered her face with her hands. She sat there for a long time, then opened her eyes and tried to brush the drying mud off her jeans and Paul Frank T-shirt. It didn’t work. “If I didn’t know better, I’d guess the bench would collapse next,” she muttered sourly. The painted wood gave an ominous creak, and Hannah bolted upward and sprinted away. She was brought to an abrupt halt when she collided with someone. They both fell to the ground. Hannah scrambled to her feet with a flustered apology. “Oh golly, I’m so sorry!” The other person stood up. It was a boy, probably a few years older than Hannah. He was really tall, with wild, curly brown hair and huge green eyes. “It’s all right. I wasn’t watching where I was going anyway.” He brushed off his black T-shirt. Then, looking at her closely, he said, “I’m Tony Moore. Who are you?” She blushed. “I’m Hannah Bauer.” “Tough day, huh?” asked Tony, matter-of-factly. Wordlessly, Hannah nodded, wondering how he knew. “You’ve just got that look on your face. I’ve seen enough people, so I can tell what you’re feeling. Come,” he added. “I want to show you something. Might cheer you up.” He started walking, and Hannah followed. She inexplicably trusted Tony, with his straightforward manner and sincere eyes. The boy led her through the park and into the woods on the other side. He went unwaveringly, along a tiny footpath Hannah wouldn’t even have noticed, and she wondered how many times he had come through this forest. As if sensing her thoughts, Tony said over his shoulder, “I love these woods. If I could, I’d build myself a treehouse like Swiss Family Robinson and live here. I know practically every inch of this place.” He led her a little farther and jumped over a crumbling stone wall. Hannah followed, though she climbed over it. Tony’s legs were much longer than hers. Tony was waiting for her. “This,” he said emphatically, green eyes shining, “is one of my favorite places.” Hannah looked around. This was different from the rest of the woods she had seen. Cracked flagstones peeked between the moss, hinting that perhaps this had once been a courtyard. The stone wall ran all the way around the clearing, and in the center was a small pond with a moss-covered fountain in it. “What is this place?” asked Hannah, gasping in awe. Tony shrugged his broad shoulders. “Dunno. Maybe a garden, or a temple, or something like that.” He took her by the hand and led her towards the pool. “This is what I wanted to show you,” he explained, motioning for her to step closer. Hannah peered into the murky water, wondering if he would give her some nutty metaphor about looking closer at her reflection, or if he was going to push her in. He did neither. With that, he plucked one of the blossoms from the water and handed it to me “No, over there,” he said, pointing. Hannah looked in the direction his finger was pointing and saw several pinkish white flowers floating on the pool’s surface, nestled among broad, flat leaves. “What are they?” she questioned. “Water lilies. Lotus. They’re really very lovely,” replied Tony, stroking the pearly petals. “But you wanna hear a secret about them?” His huge emerald eyes sparkled. Hannah sat on the edge of the low wooden rail that encircled the pond. “Yeah. What is it?” Tony leaned closer. “These flowers grow from the junkiest mud at the bottom of the pond,” he said softly. “Isn’t that amazing? A gorgeous flower, and it started out in the mud.” “How?” asked Hannah, intrigued. “Well, all of that muck is actually full of the stuff that a flower needs to grow. So the mud gives the lotus what it needs, and the flower, searching for the sun, rises above it to the surface.” Hannah blinked. Tony smiled and continued. “I think people are like that. The world gives us what we need to rise above our troubles and be as beautiful as these flowers.” He gently touched one of the blossoms, then fixed her with his compelling gaze. “You can be like that, Hannah. Days like this, when the whole world seems against you, just remember that someday you’ll grow above all this muck, searching for the sun.” Hannah stared at him. She wouldn’t have pegged him for the type to have this kind of insight. “Th-thank you, Tony,” she stammered, finally finding her voice. Tony smiled. “No prob, Hannah. Glad I could help. I’ll see you around.” With that, he plucked one of the blossoms from the water and handed it to her. He looked into her eyes. “Don’t forget it,” he said with another smile, and slipped away into the woods. Hannah just barely caught a flash of his catlike eyes, and then he was gone. “Be seeing you around, Tony,” she whispered. She stroked the silky petals of the lotus, and then, tucking the bloom behind her ear, walked away, ready to face the day with renewed strength. Lily Hoelscher, 13Baker City, Oregon Vaeya Nichols, 12Ozark, Missouri
May/June 2015
Owl Song
A girl sat on her bed, staring up at the ceiling. “It’s not fair!” she yelled to the room. “I didn’t ask for them to die!” The girl’s eyes filled with tears as she punished herself inside for saying that word. Aunt Emilia had always been so strict about saying die in her house. She had scolded her, Sarah, for a little slip, saying severely, “The Lord did not wish us to scorn those passed away with that dreadful word.” But they are dead, Sarah thought, and no amount of pretense would change that. The girl surveyed her bare little room. A wooden bed, desk, and dresser, with only a single small window and threadbare carpet, these had always been the furniture in her homely room. Sarah stood and went to the dresser, gazing into the old cracked mirror atop it. She desperately hoped to see something different this time, but no. She had the same straggly shoulder-length brown hair, pale almond-shaped face, and dark brown eyes, large in her thin little face. Sarah turned, furious with herself, her reflection, and her life. Out the window she glanced, wanting desperately to see someone kind and comforting, but what she saw made her draw back in fear. Penelope and Sasha, the chief bullies in school, were walking along the street. They were popular, pretty, and everything she wasn’t. Sarah had lately become their favorite target. She stepped away at once, but not before Sasha had seen her. She whispered something to Penelope, who smirked, and together they mock-waved at Sarah. “Mrowww?” asked Ginger curiously, seeing his owner was upset She turned away from the window in a rush, needing something on which to take out her anger and frustration. She wanted to smash that mirror and scatter its fragments to the world, on top of those girls down there, to show them what it felt like to be her for just one minute. Sarah made a movement to grab hold of it, but her cat, Ginger, stopped her with a leap across the room. “Oh, Ginger,” Sarah sighed, “you always know what’s best.” For the girl and her cat both knew what would happen if she had hurled the mirror away, and it would not be good. Lonely young Sarah sometimes pretended that Ginger could understand her, and she told him all her worries. “Mrowww?” asked Ginger curiously, seeing his owner was upset. “The most awful thing’s happened, dear,” replied his mistress, for she felt she must get the story out somehow. “Aunt Emilia has decided to send us off to live with two old people in the country! Oh, apparently the Martans are ‘kind and hardworking folks, Sarah dear,’ but I don’t want to go live like a slave of some old grandparents! But has Aunt Emilia ever cared what I want? No, it’s always ‘Sarah do this’ and ‘Sarah do that,’ without the slightest thought of what I want to do. She’s been waiting for years to get rid of me, and now she has!” The poor girl sank onto her bed, in a flood of tears. She knew it wasn’t fair to speak of her aunt like this, but at the moment she was feeling too pitiful and misused to care. Maybe I could run away, Sarah thought desperately. I could go and live in the woods like children in storybooks. Or I could simply refuse to go. Aunt couldn’t force me to. Her heart sank. She knew these ideas would never work. So Sarah just lay down and cried her heart out. When at last she tired of tears, she lay still, exhausted from crying. The sun was bidding farewell to the world, spreading the sky with clouds as pale and soft as silk. Like a glorious fiery king, drawing his cloak around him, thought the girl, feeling as though an old friend had come to comfort her. Perhaps things wouldn’t be so bad after all. It wasn’t as though she had loved the old house, for in truth it had always seemed like a prison. The mocking portraits of wealthy relatives long dead; the carpets and furniture stiff and without a speck of dust; the plastic imitation flowers, seeming to say vainly, “We are better than the live ones, for we will never wilt or die. Come, admire and pay your respects,” all seemed to be setting an example which she must follow, though she was not sure she wanted to. And as for Aunt Emilia, no love had been lost between the two. The woman had considered Sarah as a duty and a nuisance, and was constantly reminding the girl how much she owed her, Aunt Emilia, for all that had been done for her over the years. Sarah got up and went to the window. A beautiful, tawny owl was sitting on a branch. There were no other birds. Sarah wondered if the owl was lonely. But no, she thought, its song is not one of sadness. It was a song of home, a new life, and finding yourself for who you truly are. Sarah felt and saw this vaguely, though she was too young to really understand it. Perhaps if she went away she would be like this owl, alone, but happy with her life, making herself a new path. Silly, Sarah chided sarcastically, like I have friends. The tears welled up again, but back on her bed things seemed better. Maybe, Sarah thought, it would all turn out OK. The last thing she heard before drifting into sleep was the owl hooting in the distance. The sound gave her courage; she had always loved owls. Briefly, Sarah wondered if an owl would sing to her at her new home. But before she could think any more, she had fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep. * * * Rain pounded against the roof of the car. Sarah watched the drops race down her window,
Life
First breath Cold air, gleaming lights I do not understand this world I do not know sometimes it is cold Sometimes I must fight alone Parents and family protect me I am different but cannot understand why Things happen bad and good A brother comes I want to protect him with all my strength Care for him with all my love We bicker and fight But still I protect him I cannot understand people, emotions, friends All lost inside my mind Alone Around people but always alone Without a friend Family do not know what it is like To be alone I understand I am different Blessing or curse I do not know But I fight for it to be a blessing I write Words flow I get lost among stories, tales, and books I do not know what lies ahead But I charge through life Daniel Fawcett, 12Ottawa, Ontario, Canada
